


Her Last Gift

by skylite



Category: Marvel Comics - Fandom, Marvel Zombies - Fandom, X-Men
Genre: Apocalypse, Gen, Marvel Zombies, X-men - Freeform, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylite/pseuds/skylite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The zombie apocalypse has turned everyone who isn't quick enough or othrwise able to avoid being bitten.   X-Men Storm and Gambit have a quiet moment amidst the horror even as the zombified one of them fights succumbing to their new nature. Will one best friend have the guts to do what it takes to the other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Last Gift

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Marvel Zombies universe, not 616.  
> Originally written in 2007. Minor edits made to correct spelling, typos and such.  
> Disturbing imagery as one might expect in a story with zombies.

****  
  
They were together, up high. Not that being able to sit atop a high ledge in New York made them any safer. Spider-Man could climb. Thor could fly. The Wasp and Wonder Man could fly. The Hulk and his cousin She-Hulk could make it up here with a leap.  
  
But it was the illusion of comfort. The illusion of fresh winds clearing the mind.   
  
The truth was worse. Much worse. The truth was that Ororo couldn't set foot on the ground anymore. Even through man made blacktop, concrete, pavement, and miles of metal and mortar -- she could feel it. Mother Earth shuddered with revulsion at her touch. It wasn't earthquakes, not like the world would recognize, if the world could even focus its attention on anything other than the unspeakable nightmare unfolding around them.  
  
The dead, getting up and walking. Hungering, satisfied by nothing but the flesh of the living. And contagious, so that any living thing that succumbed to a bite would become one such.   
  
"Stormy...?"  
  
"What is it?"  
  
Remy flinched. It was their old schtick, reliable as Burns and Allen; she always replied the same -- 'Do Not Call Me Stormy.' But she hadn't. "How come you ain't take a bite?"   
  
She did not move for a moment. She remained wrapped in her black cloak, her white hair hiding her face. Her earthy beauty was gone, as death had dessicated the muscle under her skin. Her lips had fallen away to bare her teeth. The blue cat eyes glowed unnaturally now.   
  
"I have ..." She choked on her words, revulsion warring with honesty. "...eaten recently." She had gone to some lengths to consume as much of Stevie Hunter as possible, so that her old friend would not rise again, to shamble mindlessly through the valley of death called New York, driven only by obscene appetite. "My mind is clear. But it will not remain so long."  
  
Remy nodded. "I seen you. Fightin' it. Like a trooper. Callin' the lightnin' down."   
  
The lightning had indeed staved off the worst of the pangs at first. But the longer she held out, the more the swirling haze of red and black descended over her thoughts, and stole little molecules of her sanity, her serenity, until finally she was a slavering revenant. Kitty had been so certain that Storm could beat it. That Kitty's natural form was phased was all that had saved her when the hunger had finally surged beyond the windrider's control.  
  
Her powers had deserted her after her first loss of control, like that. She could not call the rain or the snow. She could not drive the temperature or the humidity. Earth knew her as an abomination and would have no part of her. The only power she had remaining was the flight on the breath of the wind. Touching the ground was so painful to her now, almost more painful than the hunger itself.  
  
"I fought," she murmured, voice slushy with fatigue, and something worse. The haze danced at the edges of her vision already. _So soon. So soon._ Remy was alive and whole, so far, because his kinetic abilities could bring obstacles down in the path of a pursuer. And once he could get past the idea that the things trying to eat him were dead -- there was not so much reserve left in him. Cards flew fast and furious. Warren's wings blown off most recently as Storm swooped down and plucked Gambit from being torn apart by four of the original five. Jean had thankfully died for real before this nightmare had begun.  
  
"But you runnin' outta fight, ain't you." It wasn't a question, so much as a statement, and it was Remy's voice that caught this time.   
  
"I am. It hurts. It hurts in a way there are no words for. Not in any language, my friend." She turned slowly toward him, and the moonlight caught her face. She was a skeletal hag now.   
  
Remy, Goddess love him, did not flinch from the sight of her. A tear rolled down his left cheek, though. The little girl he'd raised; the woman he called his dearest friend -- she was suffering. Suffering so. "An' you want me to stop it, neh?"  
  
"Yes." No stammering, now. Her voice was steady, full of command. Like he'd seen on the holograms and recordings of her mohawk days. "I do not belong here anymore. Earth wants me gone, and I find myself echoing her wish."   
  
"Not sure I can," Remy said, uncertainly.  
  
"If anyone can, you can."  
  
"Non," Remy said, a little more urgently. "You not gettin' me. I'm not sure I can. This not like the movies, Stormy." (Again, she did not protest the nickname.) "Shot through the head, ain't exactly doin' much. Colonel America, heard there's a hole through his skull now, an' he's still walkin' around, same as ever. Just pissed off about it."   
  
"Try. For me." Her hands were shaking. The hunger was returning. "Hurry." She wouldn't have but a few moments before the hunger raged beyond her control again.   
  
"Oui." He bowed his head. Lifted his staff, and charged it.   
  
He raised it, and brought it down with all his strength.  
  
A jolt of electricity surged up his arm, but he lifted the staff and brought it, end down, onto her skull again. She didn't scream. She didn't cry out. Her fingers just grasped the ledge and held her still. He thought he heard muddy syllables from her, encouraging him to keep going, but they stopped soon enough -- or he drowned them out with his own voice, raised in grief, rage, revulsion, horror, and finally exhaustion.  
  
Storm was truly dead by the time he finally allowed himself to stop banging the charged staff tip into her skull.   
  
He sagged weakly to his knees, murmuring apologies and farewells.  
  
His murmur became a scream, though, as Nightcrawler teleported out of nowhere and sank fangs into Remy's neck.  
  
A grim smile pulled at Remy's lips through the blinding pain and the immediate fever. His free hand raised the staff and charged it. Before he fell himself, he could take Storm's last gift and share it with as many of their friends as possible.  
  
Starting with Kurt.


End file.
